


Moonlighting

by blue_like_barnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24494797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_like_barnes/pseuds/blue_like_barnes
Summary: Steve Rogers walks into an adult gift shop...
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	Moonlighting

**_Open_ **

The sign hangs high on the picture window behind you, three feet of day-glo fuschia piped through delicate glass tubing. It emits a low, dulcet hum as it beckons out into the street and casts the counter you’re propped against in a rosy sunset glow.

It’s late, and for the most part a quiet Friday night, and you’re just tapping out some waggish reply in a long thread of texts with a coworker when the purr of a motorcycle engine dies on the curb outside of the shopfront. 

Slowly, you tuck your phone away, prising a gap through the blinds of the window and peering through. It’s too dark to make out anything other than the silhouette of a bike, and the tall figure of the man who disembarks it. He stands there for a moment, still, with hands perched on his hips before he begins a slow, almost hesitant trek up to the shop door. 

With quiet intrigue, you position yourself by the bend of the counter that flanks it and wait for the tinkle of the bell bolted to the frame to sound as he pushes it open and steps inside.

He’s hulking; tall, with broad muscled shoulders tucked into worn brown leather. A thick swath of beard covers his obviously chiseled jaw, and an old, dirty ball cap pulled low shadows tide pool eyes that fall directly onto you.

The spark is instantaneous.

A lightning crack, glimmering currents of electricity along the length of your body as you return his stare. The uncertainty lining his features vanishes as he drinks you in. What he can see of you, at least. Face to shoulders to chest to waist, and slowly back up again. Something like ardor, and maybe a little amusement lights up his smile, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I.D.?” You ask instead, grinning back without preamble as you extend your hand toward him. His brows draw, momentarily affronted, and he murmurs a “ _Really_?” that seems ready to argue he’s old enough to enter several times over. But protocol is protocol, despite that buzz of excitement that’s coursing your blood, and when you make no move to withdraw your request he sighs, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

He is. 

Old enough to enter several times over, that is. Five times over, to be exact. The picture on his license is patently different from the man who stands before you now, clean shaven with a placid smile, and you make a show of glancing pensively from one image to the other, but there is really no mistaking him. Six feet two, two hundred and forty pounds, Steve Rogers can’t help but radiate Americana, even behind that handsome swath of beard and stupid, half-assed disguise of a hat. With the casual flick of your wrist, you place his I.D. back into his waiting hand.

“Welcome to Fantasyland,” you gesture, lowering your voice enough so the couple hovering by the videos close to the register does not hear, “ _Captain_.”

Briefly he stiffens, eyes sharpening in challenge. He regards you, head tilted and mouth half quirked, but before he can offer up a response, one of the men calls, “Excuse me? I’m sorry-” 

A snag in the spell that has snapped between the two of you, but it does not break. With a coy flutter of lashes that simply asks him to _hold that thought_ , you turn away from him to help.

You can feel his eyes as you go, hot blue pinpricks the sear into the back of your skull. For his benefit, you make a show out of bending to unlock the acrylic cases containing the store’s more expensive, shaped glass _accoutrements_. And you assist the couple waiting for them with a bit of inflated enthusiasm. 

They’re polite, kind of awkward, as with most customers you’ve dealt with in the past several hours. Despite the utter normalcy of sex and everything related, it’s still an endeavor to find people who are comfortable looking you in the eye in a room full of many different objects designed to fit many different orifaces. 

But while he may seem out of place against a backdrop of vibrators every shade of the rainbow, Captain America doesn’t look afraid of you at all. Quite the opposite, rather- that tether instantly pulling you back to his shadowed gaze on your trek to the register to ring up all of the couple’s selected purchases.

“Try before you buy,” you singsong, passing batteries to the more relaxed looking of the two men, “Well, not literally. Just want to make sure it works before you go. No take backs.” And when he fires up the wand with a buzzing whir, you raise your brows and make eyes over his shoulder at Steve Rogers, who only presses his lips into a thin line to conceal his quiet laughter.

He looks good in an infuriatingly oblivious way. The _my jeans are only this snug in the ass because I haven’t bothered finding a better fitted pair_ kind of good. The thin sweater beneath his leather jacket is a pretty cornflower blue. A nice compliment to his eyes, had he chosen not to shade them by the bill of his ill chosen disguise. Faded vintage gray, with the Yankees emblem embroidered in white.

Happily, you bid the bashful couple an albeit distracted goodnight, still focused on the physical merits of Mr. Herculean Wonderboy. From the smirk that curves his mouth, you can tell he’s entertained by you. Like your brand of fun is exactly what he’s looking for.

 _Come here often?_ You mull the tease in your mind, imagining the pretty flush the question might dust over his cheeks. The rich timbre of his voice stammering out a bashful reply as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. 

Before you can commit, however, he tilts his head toward you, crossing bulging arms defiantly over bulging chest and he quips, “Got any suggestions?”

It throws you for a loop.

Turns _you_ into the stammering one instead, lips parting with surprise as you push out, “I-well…”

He likes that. Like stepping through the door to your stern _I.D.?_ was the start of a battle in dauntlessness- and he’s already won. 

But he’s only managed to catch you unawares, not expecting His Star-spangledness’ open brazeness. That’s okay. That’s perfectly fine. Because your brand of fun is exactly what you want to give him.

“Depends,” you hedge, eyes wide and voice a bit heavy on the innocence as you rest your elbows onto the counter and lean in toward him, “what are you into, _Cap_?”

You pop his name, his title rather, between your lips, and even beneath the hat you can see his eyes darken.

“Spontaneity,” he answers, lightning quick, with an undercurrent of suggestion, “and I don’t mind relinquishing a bit of control.”

“Ooh,” you trill, “a surprising M-O.”

“Yeah? What’s yours?”

“Simple, really. I like a man on his knees. And maybe I have a penchant for uniforms. I’m pretty good at being the boss, too. Climbing on top of them and- _have a good night, ma’am_!” You pause, calling out and waving to a woman who beelines for the exit without purchase, a furtive glance over her shoulder indicative of the fact that she heard you, and you should show a bit of shame.

But you don’t care. Not really. It’s been a long day, and you’re tired. You can’t help that golden opportunity has shown up to revive you just when you need it most. Presented itself, so firm and so very sculpted before you. And, seemingly, so willing to play. Kismet? 

Whatever the reason for good fortune, Steve Rogers watches you, your flippant shrug, his expression somewhere between a scold and outright delight. Slowly, he shakes his head. The _nerve_ of you.

But Captain America likes a bit of nerve.

“Well, she was the last one out, besides you and me,” you say, stepping out from the counter, moving toward the door. Fortune favors the bold, so they say. He watches you with a slow, easy gaze as you check your imaginary watch, “And look at that, it’s closing time.” 

You flip the switch that kills the sign in the window and casts a shadow onto the first few feet of the store front. The droning buzz ceases, and you can hear him close the distance between you. Feel the heat of his presence, radiating against your back as you spin the bolt on the door.

“Just gonna lock up so no one else can come in,” you say quietly, “and I’ll give you the private tour-”

His mouth is over yours before you’ve even fully turned back to face him. Hands everywhere, grasping, caressing- confirming that your brief analysis was no misconception of his intent. He wants you. Now. And you are more than happy to oblige. Capable arms hoist you into the air, wrapping your legs around his hips as he moves back toward the counter.

“This is the checkout area-” you deadpan the continuation of your thought, and he snorts out a laugh as his mouth slips down to the pulse at your throat.

He’s strong. Effortless muscle hard like granite beneath your palms, bumped and carved into Zeus like proportions. You mull over that strength, marvel at it, as he kicks out an unused chair from beneath the counter and disengages from your neck long enough to rasp,

“On his knees, huh?”

You smile, fingers flittering over the contours of his chest, “Always nice to know if he’s willing. For me.”

Slowly, with his mouth attached to yours for as long as he can manage, Steve lowers you down onto the seat of that chair. And then abruptly he drops, without hesitation, onto his knees.

 _Captain_. He spreads your legs and settles himself into the space between, running large hands up your thighs, stopping at the hem of your oversized sweater. He finds your mouth again, and your own hands find the sides of his face, knocking that old, worn ball cap to the floor as they drift up and into tufts of disheveled dark blonde hair. 

He kisses sweet, like he cannot help it. Like despite the prurient verve it took for him to settle himself between your thighs, the pleasant sweep of his tongue over yours reads nothing but gentle urges from a soft and open heart.

His keen into your mouth is unreserved and eager, and as he dips his hands beneath your sweater, he sweeps over your skin like an artist, carefully cataloguing it into memory.

Quick work is made of divesting you of the fabric, mouths only parting to pass it over your head, and then again for him to kiss along your chest. 

He is hungry for your sighs, chases them- with lips and teeth nipped over delicate skin as he tugs down straps and snaps the back to your bra, freeing your breasts into his waiting palms. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as you arch into his touch, bearded scruff tickling and trailing gooseflesh as the warm, wet lick of his tongue rolls over your nipple. 

On his knees- but he handles you like a god.

Pants follow the path of the rest of your clothes, relieved by the slip of those hewn fingers beneath the band. He tugs down and forward past your hips, and down again to your knees, pausing to prise off your boots, then your socks, before sliding them carefully off your ankles. Hands run the length of your legs again, but slower this time, like you are made of all delicate and precious things. 

There is something about the dynamic- being laid so bare and so exposed in before him, his fingers stroked reverently along your skin- that sends this aching pulse of pleasure down between your legs.

Steve’s mouth loops into a smile as you struggle not to writhe, blue smoked eyes rising up to meet yours as he bends forward just enough to venture an exploratory lick to your core.

“ _Fuck_ -” teeth clamp to your lip, and you jolt beneath him, shaken by the sensation. He laughs something low and debased and hooks an arm behind your knee, rubbing his bearded jaw along your inner thigh. 

“Like that?” he asks, moving to repeat the careful flick of his tongue, followed by the press of a kiss, humming his delight over how wet you already are, “Want more?” 

“ _Need_ it-” you plea, fingers netting through his hair again and tugging hard and, well…he seems to really like that. Enough to stop his teasing and move his tongue in a long thrilling sweep to your clit.

It undoes you, unbridled delight shivering through your bones, mapping your body as you grip on to those golden boy tresses like they are holding you back from some great precipice. 

It feels so good. _He_ feels so good, talented tongue complying with fingers eager to push and guide him exactly where you need. Languorous licks turn rough, and he slips that leg over his shoulder, gripping your ass for more purchase. He delves deeper, growing more eager until you’re mewling and squirming and pulsing your hips reflexively against him. 

All mouth. No hands. Like he prides himself on it. Like getting you off on that alone is nothing short of his mission. Ocean eyes peer up at you again, drink you in, obscene and keen and _wanting_ beneath his ministrations. He plunges his tongue deeper, setting fire to your veins, unravelling you with a debauched and throaty cry of his name that coaxes out a sexy groan of his own as he licks and swirls and carries you through every last, glorious pulse of orgasm. 

You are putty beneath him immediately after. Pliant and malleable as your chest heaves and your pulse ebbs, you make no move of protest when he slides you off the chair and onto his lap, kissing you sweet like before. Like he didn’t just strip you down and take you apart and slick his beard with the wet of your arousal. 

It feels good, his mouth on yours, the texture of his clothes pressed to your skin. He tastes like salt and spearmint and you. Smells like pine and rich worn leather and _you_ \- and he’s so goddamn gorgeous it hitches your breath all over again as you fumble for his zipper and spring free the gloriously thick cock from his jeans. 

“Mmph-” he rumbles into your mouth, faltering when you wrap your fingers around his length and swirl his slick over the head with your thumb. Body still weak and recovering, it’s a triumph to watch him be the one to ripple with pleasure beneath your touch.

“Sweetheart-” he gruffs into your ear, gasping heat of a plea he can’t articulate as his hips thrust uncadencrd up toward your hand. 

“Oh god, _baby_ -” desperate, panted endearments that sound luscious from his mouth, secret and wrong but _so_ sexy, “let me fuck you,” he begs, “ _please_ let me fuck you.”

“Well. Since you said please-”

He lifts you like it’s nothing. Grasps your hips and sinks you onto him, stretching and filling you slow, so careful his hands tremble with restraint.

“ _Precious_ ,” you murmur, licking the curve of his mouth. His eyes soften at that, trained on your face as you slip your arms beneath his jacket and fist fingers into the soft cotton of his sweater. His heart beats like a hummingbird’s, strong and fast beneath the searing heat of his skin.

He waits for you. Relinquished and more unguarded than you’d ever expect Captain America to be.

You fuck him like that, on his knees, resting back onto the heels of his boots. Slow at first, greedy for those intimate kisses he presses against your mouth. You ride out a second wave of pleasure that leaves you dizzy and drunk on unabashed moans that shamelessly spill from his lips.

 _Let_ _me_ _fuck_ _you_ , he’d begged. But _please_ , _fuck_ _me_ , he’d meant. Naked before him, but _you’re_ the boss. Every ounce of control renounced and given to you on litany of breathless praise and sloppy kisses colliding into every stretch of skin he can reach. 

When he comes, it’s so hard his entire body quakes, fingers dug into the flesh of your ass like you’re the anchor tethering him to the world, slaking every single cell.

He goes quiet after. Sated and warm. You wonder if he can feel his feet anymore. Wonder if he even cares. With a surge of affection, you cradle his face in your palm and sweep back the long strands of hair that have fallen down over his forehead with the other. His mouth shapes into this achingly sweet, dopey smile. Cheeks splotched pink, he watches you with those tide soaked eyes and draws out a breath to steady his voice.

“Apprehended your target,” he says, it’s a little shaky, still, “you’re welcome.”

You snort, dropping a kiss to his brow as you hum, “Think I’d be celebrating down here with you had I not already known that? Steve. I am nothing if not thorough-”

His brows knit, tongue running the length of his kiss puffed lips as he grins curiously at you.

“Clint texted after the comms dropped,” you add, “something _you_ could do, too- if you weren’t so hell bent on that ridiculous flip phone you need to punch multiple times just to get out one letter-” 

He cuts you off with a kiss. Just enough of a press to render you quiet, and he chuckles, “So what’re you still doing here?” 

His hands trail errantly over your chest, down and around to the small of your back. It feels nice, and you lean into him, luxuriating in his touch with an easy sigh.

“Aside from the obvious?” You ask, thumbing the knit on his sweater, “Do you know how much fun this job is? It’s like…being a hotel maid without all the bullshit. The _literal_ shit. The gross stuff. I get to look at all the dirty things people hide beneath their mattresses-”

“Oh yeah?”

“All while executing superior surveillance. Thank god I’m a multitasker.”

“Thank God,” he repeats, chuckling softly against you.

You clean up with his undershirt, delighting in the brief glimpse of taut, sculpted muscles before he tugs his sweater on again. He gathers your clothes and shakes them out and helps you dress. Always a gentleman. And he listens to you tease the idea of Tony by association really being sort of like his sexual fairy godmother, a thought he hates so much he’s cringing and begging for you to stop.

“I should ask his friend if she has any _actual_ part time positions,” you giggle, tugging on your boots.

Steve laughs, “I think you’ve already violated company policy.”

“Good thing I disabled the interior surveillance beforehand.”

“Shit,” he winces, eyeing the row of monitors behind the counter for the first time, “I didn’t even think about that.”

“You were busy being all dumb horny. _You’re_ _welcome_. See? It’s a give and take relationship.”

He hangs on to that word. _Relationship_. It softens his gaze, shapes his mouth into a smile as he savors it, holding a hand out to your shoulder to still you.

“Let me take you out tomorrow,” he says finally, coaxing you into the sleeves of his jacket, “Just the two of us, proper.”

You settle into the warm, heavy leather, grateful for it. It’s freezing outside, after all, “No gate crashing from your annoying friends?”

“ _You_ invite them,” he accuses, laughing again and then, significantly, “One night, just us, one-on-one-”

“Oh, I think we’ve done the _one-on-one_ a lot more than one night-”

“Be serious,” he urges, dropping his arms and catching your hand in one of his. He raises them up between you, and you intertwine them, threading your fingers through and heaving a sigh. 

Because the thing about Steve- the thing the thing t _he thing._..is that what you have now is great. The camaraderie, the banter, and to be frank, the sex. Sparse as it is, tucked into stolen moments and opportunistic spaces. He’s funny and fun and you’re fearless around him and it is _great_. But those softer moments? Those deep, intimate kisses, and soft giving touches? The way they make you feel, when you’re all alone and quiet- it can scare the shit out of you. And _Steve_? So fucking genuine and precious and so-

“Busy,” you say, but it’s only a half hearted whisper, “You’re so busy, Rogers.”

His brows knit together, “Rogers, huh?” He doesn’t like it.

“Captain?” You tease. But he tugs at your hand, drawing you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. _Be_ _serious_.

“ _Steve_ ,” he asks, “And I’m never too busy. Not for you.”

And the thing about that. The honorable and decent and _loving_ fucking thing- is that you _know_ you can reject the idea. That he has no issue graciously letting it go, if it’s what you want. That his bid for you to be serious is merely a request to take _him_ seriously. To know he means what he says, and it’s more than just some frivolous joke. That he just wants you in this, the way you always are, to be a little fearless. 

So, “ _Steve_ ,” you dictate slowly, intentionally. You swipe your thumb along the back of his hand, swallow down the flutter that rises up your throat, “I like hydrangeas-”

“Blue ones,” he says, “I know.” And you resist the urge to smile.

“You have to feed me tonight, too,” you wager.

“Done,” he laughs.

“Burgers from that place I really like-”

“No problem.”

“And you have to get a real phone.”

He hesitates, sizing up your resolve with careful eyes, biting back his own smile before answering, “I’m willing to negotiate.”

So, new phone, then. You nod, “Okay. Then I guess it’s a date. Tomorrow, I mean. I’m useless tonight. Spent. Completely uninteresting-”

“Impossible,” he disagrees, and finally smiles this perfect teethed beam that’s pure fucking sunshine. Insufferably pretty, and most of that beauty is radiated from the inside out.

You grab his forgotten hat off the floor on your way out the door, turn over the ugly, dingy thing and smile.

“You know, I don’t know if you- or Sam, or Bucky for that matter- are aware of this, but baseball caps aren’t really the height of disguise. There are a lot of smarter options out there.” 

“ _This_?” He nudges you, nodding to your hair, amethyst and sleek and cut to your chin. His first acknowledgement of it aside from that long look he’d given you upon walking through the door.

You shift your head side to side, giving it a little swing, “You like it?”

And he twirls a finger around a strand, “It’s nice,” he says, “ _Sexy_. But I really like your own more.”

“Well, be still my heart,” you tease. But really. _Slow down_ , don’t scare yourself with the idea of how quickly he could make you fall. Be fearless. Tucking the hat into the folds of his jacket, you add, “I thought you hated the Yankees?”

“Hence,” he says, “The disguise. Plus, it was already taken care of when I showed up. Like I said-“

“Thank god. You could’ve blown my cover otherwise.”

“And instead I blew your-“

“ _Steve_.”

“- _mind_!” He finishes innocently, but not innocently enough, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Fine. It’s not a lie. And God, it makes you want to kiss him more. Does agreeing to a date negate that? And sex? Quickly, you lock up behind the two of you, pondering while you follow him out to his bike. What kind of fucked up reality-

“What’s in the bag?” He asks, interrupting your train of thought as he gestures to the little bundle of pink he hadn’t noticed you slip beneath your arm on the way out.

Mischievously, you grin, “Oh, well. Something I’d picked out earlier to play with a friend. But I think he’s looking for something more serious, now. So I guess I’ll hold off-”

You don’t know why you do it. Hedge your questions into teases and jokes. An automatic insecurity you’re a little desperate to shake. _Be_ serious. But Steve reads you easily, reaching out for the bag you wordlessly drop into his hand.

He doesn’t open it, simply tucking it away into the pannier slung across the back of the bike and zipping it shut inside. 

He moves to cross in front and pauses, grasps the hem of his jacket between his fingers and begins to snap the buttons closed, one by one.

“How about,” he says, cocooning you in the warmth of it, “let’s not say that,” reaching your neck, “like you wouldn’t be worth _every_. _single_. _second._ of the wait-“ he leans in, hovers for a moment over your lips before opting for a single, chaste kiss to your nose instead.

An answer.

And damn if it doesn’t puddle your insides.

He climbs onto the bike, turning to help you up behind him, and waits for you to settle and situate your hands around his waist. You learn forward, nuzzling your face between his sharp shoulder blades.

“ _Godd_ ,” you groan, helplessly, “it’s going to be _so_ hard to not fuck you. All this gallantry and shit.”

His laughter isn’t dampened even by the noise of the bike revving to life.

He pulls onto the street, still laughing as he turns left onto 8th. He doesn’t even have to ask which bar it is, the one with your favorite burgers.

It’s a little dive, mostly hidden, that makes them so thick and greasy they leave the paper carry out bags translucent.

And he heads straight for it.


End file.
